


kiss him quiet and fuck him loud

by literarytonguetied



Category: One Piece
Genre: Anal, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Camboy Law, Cum Eating (minor), Dildos, M/M, Masturbation, Piercings, Porn Star AU, Porn Star Law, Sex Toys, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 13:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13214997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literarytonguetied/pseuds/literarytonguetied
Summary: “'What are you looking forward to now that you’re joining the industry?'There’s a brief pause while Law seems to mull over his answer. A wicked smirk, small and cocky, blooms on his face, 'Feeling good and getting paid.' His laugh is soft and low.Rocinante grips the edge of his desk a little too hard and thinks he might be in trouble."





	kiss him quiet and fuck him loud

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all this is my first fic in almost five years and chapter one of what is hopefully a multiple chapter endeavor. It took an embarrassing amount of time to get this done and I owe a huge!!! thank you to [Anne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zinnianne/pseuds/Zinnianne) for all of their help and support getting this monster out. They were an amazing beta and have the patience of a saint putting up with all the bitching I did about being so out of practice.
> 
> Tags and pairings will be added as updates are posted, and I hope y'all enjoy!

"Just open the link, I promise you'll like it."

Doflamingo's voice rumbles over the phone and Rocinante can't help but make a face. It's not a secret that his brother's proclivities were... interesting at best. He takes a breath before moving the phone away from his ear so he doesn't have to hear the grin Doflamingo is sporting on the other side. It doesn’t help; the smile is just as tangible as if Doflamingo was standing in the room with him. 

Rocinante doesn't necessarily dread when his brother calls, a lot of the time the conversations were innocent enough. There was business to handle, news to catch up on, standard talk between brothers. But.

And that was a big but.

Doflamingo's business didn't always mesh with polite company. In his own words, he preferred to have his interests and investments spread far and wide to make it all the easier to drop it should complications arise. Rocinante did not ask how far the reach went or what his brother meant by complications. Self preservation won out over curiosity every time.

Another sigh. He brings the phone back to his ear, "I don't know, Doffy..." The link staring at Rocinante from the email pane connects to one of Doflamingo's private enterprises. Fifteen minutes into a business call had Doflamingo talking about his newest acquired talent and a promise that it would fit Rocinante's tastes. "You know I'm not really interested in this stuff."

Doflamingo laughs in response, "So you've told me, but don't you trust me, little brother?"

Rocinante didn't trust him as far as he could throw him. "It's not that, of course I trust you, I'm sure-"

"Then open the link." The grin was fading from Doflamingo's voice.

"Doffy, I'm sure- I’m sure your new talent is great," Rocinante stumbles over his words, "but-"

"You say you trust me, so prove it. I'll call you later to hear what you thought." Doflamingo disconnects the line without the satisfaction of a dial tone nor a click before Rocinante has another opportunity to refuse. Not that it would have mattered. It wasn't smart for Rocinante- or anyone- to refuse a request from Doflamingo, regardless of personal feelings.

Rocinante places the phone face down on his desk. He heaves a sigh, dropping tension from his shoulders that he didn't know he'd been holding and follows the tension to slouch low in his chair. He pats his pockets for his cigarette carton and taps one out, along with his lighter as he feels the beginnings of a headache burgeoning behind his eyes.

It's a familiar feel between the knuckles of his fingers and a comfort between his lips. His lighter sputters sparks the first several times he flicks the striker wheel. The sparks pick at his fingers, but at least he can focus on his smarting fingertips and the soothing burn of the first drag as it fills his chest instead of the blue link still sitting un-clicked in his open email. There is no message body, no subject line. Doflamingo had sent the email while they were on the phone and Rocinante’s curiosity is what led to Doflamingo’s explanation and express instruction. 

He burns his fingers again as he smokes the cigarette down to the butt and is sorely tempted to chain smoke the rest of the carton if only for the excuse of having to go out to get a new box. He couldn't put this off forever but almost anything could be on the other side of the link his brother had sent him. Especially considering the type of business his brother ran.

Well, not anything. On the other end of this link was a video, the name displayed proudly at the end of the URL: "Heart Thief's First Solo."

Rocinante presses his lips together in a thin line as he straightens in his chair and clicks the link. He peers over the monitor at the closed door, debating if he should lock it or not. It's not like someone would walk in, but years of having Doflamingo as an older brother changes a man. He sighs to shake off the feeling, not bothered enough to get up.

The site is as garish and bright as the last time Doflamingo had made him visit it, a testament to his tastes. Various shades of pink colored a layout that, Rocinante would begrudgingly admit, was very user friendly.

The video did not start immediately, which gave him another opportunity to hesitate. The preview image had the talent on all fours, ass facing the camera, asshole tastefully hidden by the play button. The description underneath provided further explanation to the title. It was his first video, first show, first solo. A brand new star in the huge world of porn and the huger porn empire that Doflamingo controlled. One of many sites that the video was no doubt cross-posted to.

This was. Absolutely not to Rocinante's taste, though his taste and his brother's rarely matched anyway. Rocinante still doesn't know what his brother was playing at or why he had pushed so hard for him to watch the video in the first place. Rocinante had nothing to do with this side of Doflamingo's business, which Rocinante preferred, and had no say or sway to any of Doflamingo's decisions.

The man in the preview, he supposed, was nice to look at. At least what Rocinante could see was nice to look at. Though he did not oppose it, Rocinante had never really had a strong pull towards porn in the first place. No collection of nice aesthetic could draw him to the impersonal content; a pretty face and a pretty ass weren't going to suddenly change his mind.

He had consumed porn before and would again when only his hand and the quietness of a lonely night weren't doing it for him. But the combination of the ridiculously pink site, the tastelessness of the preview image, and his brother being so damn pushy about the whole thing had left a decidedly sour taste in Rocinante's mouth. The more he turned it around in his head, the less he liked the idea at all, and the more sour the taste got. Rocinante could not find reasoning behind his brother's actions.

The pondering did give him an extra several minutes to not press play, though.

He knew, regardless of how he felt about the situation, Doflamingo would not let it rest until he got his way. The last thing Rocinante needed was his brother showing up at his house ready to watch the video with him. Rocinante was sure this would be how things played out if, when Doflamingo called him again, he had not already watched the video. Doflamingo had no qualms forcing his way into things just to watch someone else squirm.

Rocinante rubs tiredly at his face. His brother was doing a fantastic job at making him squirm, which was probably the whole reason for the pushy phone call and pushier email. Less general cruelty and more the cruelty of an elder sibling playing a mean prank. He hoped. Elder sibling cruelty was worlds better than if Doflamingo had something else in mind.

He tapped out and lit another cigarette. Another deep drag. Another long exhale. Rocinante could not place why this admittedly small thing bothered him so much. It's not like Doflamingo had asked him to partake in future videos or even to join the business. The request to watch the video was more like being in a focus group than anything. But his brother had sent the link to him specifying that he was doing so because it matched his tastes, like he was doing Rocinante a favor.

He furrows his brow at the computer screen, leaning forward to rest his elbow on the desk and his chin in his hand. Another drag. Rocinante moves to tap ashes away from the cherry and completely misses.

The entire cherry falls off the cigarette and the lit embers hit his keyboard. He jumps to his feet and scrambles to brush them away, chair clattering to the ground in his haste. He knocks the lamp off the corner of the desk with his elbow, a bright crash to accompany the light bulb shattering. The cord from the lamp pulls papers from the desk and knocks over the pen holder. Rocinante holds the rest of his dead cigarette limp between his fingers. Pens roll off the desk and hit the ground in soft taps as he stands above the mess.

There is a brief moment that Rocinante stands frozen above the disaster before he realizes there is muffled sound playing from the cheap computer speakers. His mouth a thin line of defeat, he ignores the mess he’s caused. Instead, Rocinante rights his chair and gingerly sits down. The video had started playing some time in Rocinante’s mad dash not to burn the house down. One way to bite the bullet, he supposes.

The opening scene is not what Rocinante had expected. In his (limited) experience, a lot of first time solo videos were amateur. Even if produced by a larger company, the tendency was to play up the lack of experience. Put newbies on a bed, make it seem familiar and comfortable, have them act coquettish and shy right up until the good parts. This was one of the main reasons that Rocinante avoided this particular genre of porn. The entire setup was so fake and manufactured it destroyed any chance of immersion.

Maybe this is what Doflamingo had meant when he said that this particular video and this particular talent was more to Rocinante’s tastes. The talent, a man, was lounging unabashedly shirtless on a plush couch in what was very obviously a studio. There was no awkward role play or scene to set up. There was no forced, faked intimacy. Rocinante turned up the volume on his speakers.

The first several minutes were basic interview. The disembodied voice of the interviewer, thankfully, did not belong to his brother. The man was asked standard questions: name (Law Ladron), age (24), height (6’3). What he liked to do in his spare time, who he liked to do in his spare time. Why porn, what he preferred in the bedroom. His hobbies, if he liked to read, his favorite color.

Rocinante was distracted by the way his hand rested against the tattoo on his sternum. How his muscles flexed when he ran his fingers through shaggy hair. How low his pants sat on the sharp peaks of his hips that created deep Adonis lines. It was a million small movements that drew Rocinante’s attention. Law would lick his lips quickly before answering, his breath would push against his torso and the cut of his abs would clench with a laugh.

“What are you looking forward to now that you’re joining the industry?”

There’s a brief pause while the man seems to mull over his answer. A wicked smirk, small and cocky, blooms on his face, “Feeling good and getting paid.” His laugh is soft and low.

Rocinante grips the edge of his desk a little too hard and thinks he might be in trouble.

“Let’s not delay, then,” the interviewer says. The man’s smirk grows. There’s a soft swell of music as the scene changes. The man is still lounging, but the atmosphere feels different. There’s a sharper look in his eye, an edge that that smirk.

Law drags a slow hand down his chest. Fingertips drift across his trapezium, into the dip of his clavicle and the swell of pectoral. Across tan skin and dark tattoo and tan skin again. Rocinante can see the way abs flex with the way he breathes as his thumbpad glances over the divots and hooks into the band of his pants.

Rocinante feels an itch under his skin, stir crazy but unable to ease the sensation. He sucks in a deep breath, quick, until he feels like his lungs will explode, until his chest aches in an attempt to dispel the feeling. It's like the feeling of a sneeze that won't come, an edge or a precipice or a cliff. Something dangerous.

The camera pans up to focus on his face. Law licks his lips and Rocinante almost chokes.

“Seems like you know what you’re doing.” Cameraman chuckles and Law looks directly into the camera.

“I might have a little experience in making myself feel good- making other people feel good too. Combining the two saves time.” Law rakes a hand through his hair and Rocinante has to stop himself from mirroring the movement.

“Besides, I like a little teasing," both hands rest on his hips, "or a lot of teasing. Makes the end result that much better.” He says as he swipes lines across his hips, both hands moving upwards to brush over his nipples and hook over his shoulders. It makes his arms flex something beautiful. Defined abs, pectorals; he leans his jaw back to bare the stark tendons of his neck. Rocinante watches with rapt attention at the way Law’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

Rocinante doesn’t dare glance down at how much time has elapsed. Not enough for how absorbed he is in this video, definitely not enough for how hard he is gripping the edge of his desk. His knuckles are white and his teeth are clenched and Law hasn’t done anything but look good. Look amazing, with the smoothness of his skin and the way his finely articulated fingers rake across planes of tattoos and concavities of muscle.

And those tattoos, Rocinante wants to--

Wants to?

“Surely you don’t have just teasing in store for us?” Cameraman gently prods. Law chuckles again and it makes Rocinante’s stomach jump not unpleasantly. Law drops his hands and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. It brings into sharp relief the cut of his jaw, the broadness of his shoulders, the definition of muscle as it drips down his back.

“Fuck,” Rocinante whispers, and is surprised by his own outburst.

Law looks the picture of cocksure as he leans in, hands gripping each other between his spread knees. He looks like he’s trying to tell a secret, a facade of intimacy, a moment just between him and Rocinante-- “Of course not, what sort of show would that be?” He drags something into frame from offscreen and the moment is shattered, “But I find the build up is half the fun.”

The camera is presented with an array of toys: vibrators, dildos, beads, some things Rocinante can’t name off the top of his head. “But don’t worry, I have quite the main event planned.” Law scoots the display back out of frame. The camera pans back to focus on the way Law is splayed on the couch as he leans back again to put his full body in view.

His hands are doing the slow spread down his body again, fingertips gently dipping into the band of his pants and back out. Law spends a moment to very pointedly rub at a nipple and lets out a quiet breath. Sensitive.

“Sensitive?” Cameraman zooms in on Law’s face.

His smile is a little less cocky, “Ah- yeah.” He pinches his nipple and his eyes flutter shut. The camera zooms out again and Rocinante watches as his other hand rubs at the inseam of his pants. Along the inside of his thigh. Higher. He grinds the heel of his hand against his crotch and does another pass with his fingertips in the band. Law pushes them down a little lower and Rocinante can see the way Law’s cock is starting to stir.

It doesn’t help that Law rolls his hips. Then Rocinante is very aware of the way Law’s dick sits half hard and starting to press against the zipper.

“Sensitive anywhere else?” Cameraman is doing a great job framing Law’s sprawling limbs. He captures the way red sits pretty on Law’s high cheekbones and the tips of his ears, dripping down the lines of his neck and pooling in his collarbones.

Law makes another pass with his hands. Rocinante’s mouth is dry. It’s easy to imagine scores from nails against Law’s tan skin and he drags his finger tips from neck to clavicle to rib cage to hips. Thumbs hook into the waist of his pants, just to the other side of the belt loops so that nothing is obscured, and he drags them down inch by torturous inch.

Torturous, despite how eager Rocinante is-- because of how eager he is. The way Law’s eyes meet the camera makes the entire thing almost intimate. The way he smiles gives Rocinante tunnel vision.

“Sensitive in all the right places.” Law shucks his jeans off, taking his dick gingerly in one hand. The other is still all over him, over all of the places Rocinante is suddenly itching to touch. He thought it would be awkward to watch once Law took his pants off, but the stark nakedness does nothing to dull the allure.

His dick is pierced. Rocinante only catches it by the way the light glances off the metal as Law gives a slow, sure stroke right over it. The tips of Rocinante’s fingers buzz and his skin pricks with heat; he’s warm in the low pit of his stomach. When his cock twitches at the way Law bites his lip upon his own relief, Rocinante gives up all pretense of even pretending to be unaffected.

Law jacks himself slow and sweet, teasing his nipples, letting out breathy moans that crackle over Rocinante’s computer speakers. Rocinante releases his grip on the edge of the desk to palm himself over his pants and can’t help the embarrassing noise that rises past his throat and spills over his tongue. Flush spreads low over Law’s chest to brush past the swirled tattoos and settle at the peak of his nipples.

Rocinante squeezes himself in time with Law, and the moans fill the room in stereo. Law, fully hard, dick red and weeping. He’s got want all over his face, visible through the cracks of his cocky assuredness. His panting breaks the self confident smirk, eyebrows quirked up like he wants to beg but can’t get the words out.

The camera does a slow pan up Law’s body and Law finishes the shot with a quick wink. The satisfaction of Rocinante palming himself over two layers of clothing is not enough.

It is a foreign feeling to want to see this beautiful man lose himself. But Rocinante wants more than that. He wants to see this man sweating and pleading and wrecked. The thought crosses his mind and he suddenly can’t get his dick out of his pants fast enough. Law undulates his hips to fuck up into his hand faster and Rocinante almost chokes on his own moan.

He grips his dick, eyes glued to Law and the pulse of his hips, the cut of his abs as he arches his back off the couch and snaps his hips into his own hand. The satisfaction is intense, needed. A bodily shudder wracks through Rocinante and goosebumps raise a chill down his arms. He’s hard in moments and rubs his palm over the dick drool pooling at his tip.

Cameraman chuckles, “That can’t be the only place you’re sensitive?” Law pauses mid stroke and looks almost annoyed.

Rocinante comes back to himself abruptly. The tunnel vision clears and he feels the sweat that has his back sticking to his office chair. He’s hard but not close. His head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton and his mouth is still too dry. Rocinante licks his lips and swallows in an attempt to alleviate the feeling, but it does not change the way Law has his long limbs spread or the way finely articulated fingers grasp his dick or trace along the concavities of his musculature.

Law has recovered and schooled his features back into self-assured. Rocinante very suddenly remembers exactly where he is, exactly why he’s watching this video. His dick is a heavy weight in his hand but there is nothing he can do to quell the feeling of need as he watches Law reach down past his sac to press at his hole. The touch is teasing as he strokes slowly up his dick and spreads a bead of precum that welled at the tip. Around the piercing. Heat hits at Rocinante’s face all over again and spreads quickly down to pool at his arousal.

Law pauses to reach around one of the couch cushions and pulls out a small bottle. Unmarked with clear liquid, Rocinante doesn’t have to think very hard as to what it could be, especially considering the wicked smirk that Law shoots at the camera when he pops the cap.

The pop seems loud over the music, like it’s happening right in the room with Rocinante. Like the bottle and the couch and Law would be close enough to touch. Rocinante gives himself another stroke and shakes with it.

The lube is viscous and spreads over Law’s fingers nicely. It catches the production lights and shines. He slides his fingers down his body for show, not actually touching skin, just to lay the path from the eyes he’s giving the camera down the taut lines of abdomen to his flushed dick to his hole. He presses at it again, teasing himself, teasing his viewers.

It’s obvious Law was prepared prior to filming with the ease that he inserts one finger. Regardless of preparedness, the sigh Law gives is nothing short of relief. The sound is tailed by a moan that Law chokes off as he starts to work himself open. One finger quickly becomes two, becomes Law fucking himself in earnest. He brings one knee up to rest his heel on the edge of a cushion to give himself a better angle and to give the camera a better view. Law doesn’t hurry, isn’t rushed, but fucks himself thoroughly and without hesitation.

Rocinante watches the curl of Law’s fingers and the flex of his bicep and the flush of his skin. He follows the rhythm of Law’s hand in pathetic mimicry of fucking him, almost able to imagine the tight heat and the sound of Law’s moans in his ear and the taste of sweat on his skin. The way the piercings on his dick would feel against his abdomen as he would thrust in again and again and again, deep and hard enough to make Law really cry out.

He reaches down to stroke at his sac when Law hits inside himself and his jaw goes slack with the feeling.

“Sensitive here,” Law says breathily. The camera moves to take in a more detailed shot of Law’s face. And his body. And his hands. An overt answer to the question the cameraman had asked. “In all the right places,” His fingers remain inside him, the slow draw in and out never ceasing, but Law takes his other hand away from his dick. A pause at his hip, at his chest. His hand curls around his neck and Rocinante’s breath hitches in response.

Law’s eyes meet the camera. His fingertips curl up around his jaw, across his bottom lip, up into his hair and his body is one sinewy line as he bares himself for display. Rocinante feels like he’s been sucker punched. The raggedness of Law’s breathing, how hard and flushed his cock is, how red sits across his clavicle in a gentle spread all the way to the bridge of his nose and the tips of his ears. How his tattoos move with him and they way his piercings glint in the studio lighting.

Rocinante feels a bead of sweat drip down his neck. His mouth is dry and he swallows roughly in an attempt to relieve the feeling, only to find himself hugely unsuccessful when Law curls his fingers again and arches off the couch. Law is loud- louder than expected if the look on his face is anything to go by. The computer speakers destroy the quality of the sound but it still causes a rush of heat to constrict just below Rocinante’s navel and a responding sound to get trapped behind his teeth.

Law is still fucking himself as he reaches off screen.

“Going to show us your real talent?” The cameraman does not deviate from Law’s face and the look of concentration as he rifles through the previously displayed toys while still ensuring the even thrust of his fingers inside himself.

“I thought I had been doing a pretty good job showing off my talents.” There’s a lewd squelch and Law’s eyelids flutter. “But yes.” Law comes back with a large dildo, nothing fancy, standard color and shape. His grip is firm and sure and it is entirely too easy to imagine that same grip around Rocinante, how good the pressure would be with Law’s smouldering eyes and tan skin and pink lips. 

He licks the tip of the dildo in a broad swathe, skipping the faux foreplay of kitten licks or any semblance of gentle kisses down the side of the toy. Law’s tongue is wet with spit, makes the toy and his lips shine the same way the lube coating his fingers did. The amount of dickdrool leaking from Rocinante’s tip makes the feeling easy to translate. His own fingers slick in the up and down slide. 

Rocinante takes two fingers at his slit, wet with precum, and slides them down the thick vein at the underside of his dick just as Law draws his tongue down the underside of the dildo from tip to base. He can almost feel Law’s hot breath as he fucks his own hand in pale approximation to how Law takes the dildo in his mouth. 

He runs his tongue over the tip, takes just a bit, pops off of it like there’s nothing tastier. Law runs his mouth over it again, takes it deeper, lets the slow draw of him pulling it out of his mouth drag at his lips before taking the entire toy to the base. He deep throats the toy with half-lidded eyes, still fucking himself on his fingers.

The image sends a bolt hot arousal arcing like lightning from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his fingers, leaving tingling heat in its wake. His dick jumps and precum dribbles from the tip. Rocinante smears the precum with the pad of his thumb, gritting his teeth to hold back the moan that sits just on his tongue. 

Law is near facefucking himself with the dildo, an alluring draw in and out that showcases his apparent lack of a gag reflex. His dick, the piercings such a pretty silver against the flushed red of the head, leaves a string of precum connected against his abdomen that Rocinante wants to taste. And with his grip firm around his own dick, Rocinante doesn’t second guess himself. There’s no surprise that he wants. He isn’t shocked that he would much rather see Law do that to his dick instead of the toy, that he would much prefer his fingers in Law than Law’s own. 

Rocinante’s skin pinpricks with heat. He holds the base of his dick to stave off the impending pressure and turns up the computer volume. His own harsh breaths had been drowning out the wet sounds of Law’s fingers in his ass and the toy in his mouth. 

And, Rocinante squeezes his eyes shut and lets his head fall back, he’s been missing out on Law’s soft moaning around the toy. 

“You’re very good at that.” Rocinante opens his eyes at the sound of the camera man’s voice. His hand is firm at his own dick as he stares at the ceiling and takes a moment. Let’s Law’s hum of affirmation to the camera man’s comment wash over him and wonders what that particular sound would taste like. What it would feel like. 

It would be, Rocinante figures without needing much deliberation, good on all accounts. The way the vibration would drip sickly sweet on his tongue, a testament to how good Rocinante would make him feel. It would thrum through his body just as tremulous and sensitive as Law himself. Because Law would tremble under his fingers, surely, because Rocinante would not stop until he did. Because he would moan sweet cries and beg in quiet gasps and it is not hard to determine with a decent level of certainty that those sounds would taste very, very, very good.

He lifts his head and finds that Law has changed positions. He has to tighten the grip around his cock again as he groans, first at the sight, and then out of frustration. Rocinante wants to make this last, desperate to see this video through to the end, but the way Law moves and the way he sounds has Rocinante throbbing in his own hand. Law’s position is familiar; it is the one that stared him down when he initially opened the link. Ass facing the camera, a look thrown over his shoulder, though this time it is not obscured in the slightest. 

Law is three fingers deep fucking himself, almost rocking with it, giving those tiny moans around the toy. Rocinante can see how he genuinely enjoys it, how the muscles of his torso jump with every thrust of his fingers. The lines of his back moving with the exertion, flexing, shadows in the concavities, solid just beneath the smooth, tattooed expanse of his skin. He has one long leg extended to balance himself while his other knee is bent on the couch, spreading him wide and easing the way for his fingers.

It’s like Law knows how close Rocinante is- which is entirely impossible but Rocinante’s mind is traitorous and the feeling of pre-cum dribbling down his fingers destroys any semblance of rational thought. Law draws his fingers in slow, and Rocinante follows the languid movements in pathetic imitation of fucking him. Rocinante’s grip is too light to be fully satisfying, his pace, Law’s pace, entirely too slow. 

“You look good like that,” The cameraman speaks and Law takes a long hard suck of the toy that has his cheeks hollowing. He audibly pops off the toy just as he fucks his fingers into himself particularly deep, the ensuing moan loud and tinny through Rocinante's speakers.

"Just good?" Law asks over his shoulder and Rocinante feels like dying. Law's voice is rough and sweet like poison, dripping through debauched lips. He removes his fingers from himself and gingerly turns to face the camera. His dick is standing at full attention and the camera does a slow pan up just as a drop of precum dribbles down the piercings through his cock. 

Rocinante wants, wants, wants. Can't quite focus on what exactly he wants anymore, not with all of his focus being on Law and not coming too early. 

"Maybe better than good." The cameraman acquiesces and Law does not look satisfied with that assessment. 

Law strokes himself, letting his fingers bump over the piercings, letting himself gasp as lube and precum ease the way. He presses at his dick slit, pushes at barbells and the way he jacks himself looks less for show and more for his own pleasure. Rocinante knows what "tried and true" looks like, and the way Law can barely restrain fucking into his own hand is familiar enough. 

The camera takes care to catch the way Law bites his lip with the feeling. "Have you ever come untouched?" Cameraman asks with the lilt of a challenge in his voice. 

Law squeezes himself and sighs with the relief of it, "I have been called a man of many talents." The implication makes Rocinante dizzy. Law reaches over to retrieve the lube and pours it slowly over the dildo. He lets it drip, gives a show for how hungry he looks for it. 

Rocinante’s dick twitches in his grasp, almost able to feel the slick cold of lube straight from the bottle, can almost feel Law’s hot fingertips against him as he bucks into his own overheated hand. Goosebumps break out over his skin, chase the heat of arousal to pool just below his navel, the pressure of it maddening. He pumps himself once, worried that anything else would have this ending too soon. Rocinante’s breath hitches. Law’s gaze into the camera as he lowers the dildo to press at his hole prickles the air like static, the feeling of ozone before a lightning strike.

Law’s moan is not loud. It drips out of his mouth black as sin and viscous as tar, filled with relief and want. He does not grit his teeth through it, does not try quarantine the feeling behind locked lips and furrowed brow. His jaw drops as he draws the dildo back out, and with it, draws a sound so sweet it aches in Rocinante’s bones. He slowly presses back in. And does it again. And again. And again. Each time going deeper until he bottoms out and the hand holding the base is shaking. Until Rocinante feels jittery, nearly shaking with him.

Law’s dick jumps and a thin line of precum drips from the tip. Rocinante licks his lips, slicks his own weeping cock down and brushes his other hand through his hair. Law’s thrusts are slow, tantalizing, torturous. Rocinante tries to match the pace but impatience has him bucking into his own hand unable to restrain the thrust of his hips. 

The heat that settles into his skin is stifling. Rocinante moves his hand from his hair to grip instead at the back of his seat. The faux leather of it is cool under his palm though it quickly heats under his white knuckles, his hold making the material creak under the force. 

Law is stroking up and down his body again, paths that Rocinante follows with his eyes. His neck. Clavicle. Pectoral, pinching at his nipple now oversensitized enough for Law to arch with it instead of just gasp. Down and across abdominals, his hips, following Adonis lines and up his thigh that would be so easy to mark but harder to bruise. It’s the same line down his body that Law mapped out earlier, trailing around the same dips and swells of muscle. Rocinante is still captivated, intoxicated; the sight has his dick dripping and his mouth dry. 

The flush on Law’s skin grows deeper. It is no longer a rosy thing, rather a deep red that flows down from his upturned eyebrows as he squeezes his eyes shut in pleasure. Rocinante can’t decide what to focus on even as he fucks into his own hand at the sight. Law’s mouth, open, gasping, lips pink and suckable and fuckable. He shifts his leg and the moan he gives at the new angle makes Rocinante’s toes curl. Law arches his back into it, drives the dildo deeper, lifts off the couch in such a way that gives prominence to his ribs and the stretch of black tattoos over his chest.

Want itches just beneath Rocinante’s skin in smoldering intensity. He wants to taste the pre clinging to Law’s dick piercing, can almost feel the warmth of the metal on his tongue. He wants to press into the divots of muscle that frame Law’s trim waist. He wants to see how far he can spread Law’s thighs, how far they bend, wants to see Law hold his own legs open so Rocinante can plant his hands on either side of him and fuck into him without restraint. He wants to know if fucking Law like that would make Law’s moans louder. 

The slow fuck of his hand lets his mind wander, allows the opportunity for Rocinante to imagine what Law would like, what he would be like. How he would guide Rocinante’s hand to fuck him open, how hot he would be around his fingers-- around his dick. How hot he would be in Rocinante’s mouth. The hard pull of barbell piercing against his palm or against his tongue. Rocinante licks his lips and the taste is so close, closer when he watches Law bite at his own lips.

Law’s other hand dips low again; he plays at touching his dick, skimming his fingertips low but stops himself. Like he catches himself. He scores thin lines down his thighs with short clipped nails instead, white pressure against skin turning such a pretty red, just a shade lighter to match his blush and the deep red of his cock. Law’s dick jumps with the sting and the ideas that flood Rocinante leave him feeling like he was punched in the solar plexus. Breathless, gasping. Every bite that he wants to leave on Law now means more. Every quick mark and deep bite and lingering kiss, more sensation, more sweet sounds. 

Rocinante grips the back of the seat harder and wishes, with a firm pump to the length of his shaft, that he could run his hands through Law’s hair and pull. Make him bare his neck, press starburst kisses that are mostly teeth into the skin there. Sooth them with gentle lips. 

“Fuck!” Law’s hand on his nipple, pulling, pinching. Already sensitive and over-stimulated, he looks down his own body open mouthed and panting. With his chin to his chest, the sharp cut of his jaw is more noticeable, as is the way carefully messy dark hair sticks to the sweat at his temples. Law tilts intense grey eyes to stare up directly at the camera and Rocinante can feel every hammered heartbeat against his rib cage. It’s about how Law would look up if he were on his knees, open mouthed and panting around Rocinante’s dick and oh- isn’t that a sight entirely too pretty. Every minute movement grabs Rocinante’s attention. Every detail that shows that this isn’t just for show. 

The enjoyment and the pleasure is written across Law’s body, starting with the blush at the tip of his ears and ending with the blush at the tip of his dick. Every push and pull that has Law rocking with it, sending waves crashing into Rocinante and forcing him to rock with it too, thrust for thrust matched without hesitancy and without question. Rocinante does not usually watch porn, does not usually care, but the way Law meets his eyes, bites his lips-- the way he fucks himself so thoroughly and obviously loves every moment of it. Rocinante can’t resist. 

There is a brief moment of stillness before Law nearly shouts. “We thought we would surprise you. A little welcoming present, if you will.” Cameraman’s voice is all smile as Law melts into himself, dildo buried deep. Law’s moans increase drastically in volume, and he can’t seem to stop the noise. He squeezes his eyes shut and bucks uselessly into nothing.

The camera gets close, and as it settles to slow pan down Law’s heaving body, Rocinante can hear the faint buzz of a vibrator. “Do you like our gift?” There’s a hand that appears from just off screen that covers Law’s own on the dildo-cum-vibrator. It grips Law’s own and pulls out the vibrator with aching slowness, Law’s thighs jumping with the urge to close them fighting with the urge to keep himself wide open for Rocinante’s hungry eyes. Cameraman pulls the dildo out almost all the way. “Well?” 

Law swallows roughly, just enough of the vibration against his heated skin driving him crazy. “I like it very much.” Quick twitches, small thrusts, anything to keep the feeling going. Law is so close, obvious in how widely blown his pupils are, how heavily he’s breathing, all the more obvious with how close the camera is.

“Good.” 

The sound that rips from Law leaves Rocinante breathless. Raw and unadulterated as the vibe is driven to the hilt back into Law. The sound curves his spine as the vibe hits all the right places, has him gripping at the wrist of the man forcing the vibe so deep, has him gripping white knuckled at the edge of the couch cushions. He trembles with it, trembles with the force of a fault line quake. Law looks directly into the camera and Rocinante had imagined what Law would look like with his lips wrapped around a plea but he did not expect to ever see it. A moan like a sob, “Please, more,” without any sound behind the words. Some play on pride Rocinante might have noticed if it didn’t have him leaking precum so readily into his palm.

Cameraman obliges, regardless of begging being silent, and pulls the vibe out in that same agonizing slowness only to drive it back into Law again. Hitting all of those right spots, making his abdominals clench and him double over the feeling. Rocinante’s jaw aches with how hard he is clenching his teeth as he watches Law unravel, listens to him cry out again and again and again, loud and unabashed. Rocinante breathes through a whimper when Law nearly shouts, “Please!” when the cameraman forces the vibe deep and holds it there. 

“Please, please, please!” And there’s nothing silent about this, nothing silent about Law desperately trying to fuck himself as the Cameraman holds the vibe still. Rocinante sucks in a harsh breath, fixated, feeling the desperation as he squeezes his hand around himself, bucks up from the chair into his tight fist. 

Cameraman gives one good thrust to the vibe again, draws one more sweet sound out of Law before letting the vibe go. Law’s hand is back on it instantly, his other back on his body just as quickly. He fucks himself hard and fast, his other hand settling like fine jewelry at the base of his neck over the dip of his clavicle. Rocinante sees the slight squeeze Law presses into his neck and loses all composure.

His orgasm is enough to white out his vision. It tears through him all consuming, burning hot and spreading like wildfire to settle tingly and twitchy in his extremities. His fingers feel numb, his toes cramped from how hard they curled. He can’t seem to catch his breath and heaves with the effort. Everything is suddenly too much; the clothes on his skin, the fake leather of the seat sitting uncomfortable and sticky against him. He doesn’t immediately register the mess on his hand. Or on the edge of his desk. Or on the corner of his keyboard. 

Rocinante sits dazed, sated, warmth settling heavy and nice on his bones. He did not make it as long as he would have preferred, though he can’t complain for the sight that greets him once he regains his faculties. Law looks blissed out, focused entirely on how good the vibe feels in him, how hard and fast he can fuck himself, how to angle the vibe just right to hit that sweet spot dead on that has him near whining through the feeling. 

All of Law’s sounds are so sweet, but the small thing he gives as he pushes himself over the precipice-- untouched, Rocinante notes and his dick twitches with interest despite itself-- will torment Rocinante’s waking hours. White cum against dark skin and darker tattoos. Chest red with flush, heaving, spent. Law lets it wash over him, fucks himself through it, slow and sultry. 

Law looks like the embodiment of hedonistic desire, letting his own cum drip down his torso. He’s still twitching through the afterglow and his dick gives a half-hearted attempt at a second go as Law removes the vibe from himself. The fleeting thought of how Law would be so reluctant to let Rocinante go, how he would feel after being fucked so thoroughly and how good he would look with cum dripping out of him. Rocinante groans, body still too hot and hands shaking. He lets go of the back of his chair and lets both arms rest on the respective arm rests, one hand face up to cup the jizz pooled in his palm. His dick is still hanging out of his trousers, cum dribbled across the open fly; it’s messy but Rocinante cannot find it in him to give a single iota of a shit as he watches the afterglow leave Law jelly limbed. Satisfied.

Law gives that same smirk to the camera smug until the end, though the devil’s grin is a little softer around the edges. It takes Rocinante an embarrassing amount of time to regain his breath watching Law, head still fuzzy from the afterglow. 

The camera zooms out, giving Law more space, providing a more complete picture as he sprawls across the couch. “So, what do you think?”

Law contemplates the camera, then looks down at himself. He’s still breathing heavy, and Rocinante can see how the cum slides down the lines of his ribs with each inhalation. He swipes a single finger through the mess he made on his stomach and licks it clean, “I think I could get used to this.” He says with his finger against his lips. 

Rocinante leans forward and softly taps the spacebar to pause the video. He stays there, for a moment, doubled over his mess and his shame and the slowly budding realization that he has never done something like this before and is not quite sure what to make of it. The play button obscures most of Law, save for sharp, piercing eyes. Rocinante shudders out a sigh and finds the silence of the room deafening. 

He goes to reach for the tissue box he keeps on his desk only to find it on the floor along with the lamp and a number of pens. He carefully leans over to retrieve a tissue to wipe at his hand and at his cock. He straightens up his pants, puts himself away and allows himself a moment to breathe.

Rocinante stares, a little wide eyed, at the computer. “Holy shit,” he murmurs into the silent room. The room does not answer back. 

His head is still a little fuzzy, spinning with the inability to conceive exactly what just happened. Rocinante has never been that wrapped up in something so detached as porno, nor had he ever wanted something so viscerally. And yet here he is, still shaking with the afterglow holding a wadded up tissue covered in his come. 

Slowly, he pushes away from his desk. Away from the garish pink webpage still open on his computer and the bit of cum he missed splattered just shy of the keyboard. Rocinante can’t bring himself to stand just yet, can’t find the strength in his knees. He sits back against his chair, slightly separated from his mess but not wholly removed. He looks down at the tissue still in his hand and is a little disgusted with himself, though he can’t place why. Rocinante tosses it in the general direction of the trashcan, uncaring how close it landed. Between the shattered light bulb and his shattered dignity, it is the least of his concerns. 

He leans his head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling. He feels a little drained, a little hollow, a lot of something unrecognizable but he does not have the capacity to think about it now. “Law,” the name on his lips tingles and there’s an inexplicable sadness when he realizes that’s probably not his real name. 

The satisfaction starts to fade into a bone deep ache; Rocinante feels almost stir crazy but can’t shake the weight on his chest. All of this was… a lot. Too much for him to rationalize anything, at least for now. He’ll have to face this eventually but for now he avoids closing his eyes for too long because all he can see is that smirk. 

A quiet breath. Another. He slowly rises from his chair and leans over to close out of the webpage. Doflamingo’s email is the only thing that shows on the monitor and after a moment Rocinante exits out of that page too. He still feels a little unsteady on his feet as he cleans up the mess at the side of his desk. Carefully, he picks up the lamp, shaking off shards of light bulb, as well as the pens, pen holder, papers. He drags the trash can over, pointedly making sure his cum tissue makes it in the bin, so he can gingerly toss the larger pieces of lightbulb. 

He sorts out the rest of his desk, straightening everything, feeling himself being sorted out as well. He goes to retrieve the vacuum when there are three succinct knocks at his door. Rocinante furrows his brow. It’s the middle of the day but he’s not expecting visitors. He very sincerely hopes it’s not the witnesses; he has a difficult time turning them down but he does not want to hear about God’s plan for salvation after… Law. 

What he opens the door to is a lot worse than the witnesses.

“Hello, little brother.” 

Rocinante almost bites clear though his tongue. Doflamingo is not much taller than him but it always feels like he’s looming, always larger than life, always looking down on Rocinante. “Doffy,” he tries to sound pleasantly surprised but the taste of blood covers his tongue. He swallows roughly. 

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Doflamingo leans forward, invades his space. His grin is leering and Rocinante can see how disheveled in looks in the reflection of Doflamingo’s glasses. 

Rocinante steps back almost immediately, opening the door wider. He trips over his own feet and has to use the doorknob to catch himself, “Ah! Of course, come in.” Doflamingo chuckles, stepping through the doorway before Rocinante is even finished extending the invitation inside. 

Doflamingo does not get very far inside the house before he turns on Rocinante. “You look a little disheveled, Roci.” His grin grows, “I’m glad you liked the video.” 

He does not meet his eyes as he brushes past Doflamingo to lead him into the living room. His face feels too hot but the weight in his chest is back and he forces the shakiness from his breathing. “What exactly do you want, Doffy?”

“What do I want?” Doflamingo is close behind him and helps himself to a couch in the living room. He drapes himself across the seat and Rocinante takes a seat opposite him. “I already told you, Roci, I thought the video would be to your liking. And I was right, wasn’t I?” Doflamingo lilts the last phrase like a question but there’s no uncertainty in his tone. “He’s very good, isn’t he? Law.”

Doflamingo grinds the name out low and Rocinante very pointedly ignores what it does to his insides. His guts feel liquid, like they’ll overflow and he could burst at any moment. “A natural talent, to be sure. I have high hopes for him.” Rocinante can’t see Doflamingo’s eyes through the reflective veneer of his glasses but the weight of them is tangible on Rocinante’s skin. The longer Doflamingo watches him, the more Rocinante feels peeled back. Layer by layer, piece by piece, everything stripped away for Doflamingo’s amusement. “He’s already agreed to do more videos and it will be exciting to see how he interacts with the other staff. I have a few shoots already lined up, I’ll make sure to keep you updated.” 

Rocinante feels too exposed, too laid bare. He shifts in his seat, carefully folding his hands in his lap. Feigns casual, though he still stumbles over his words. “Doffy, you really don’t, I didn’t- I wasn’t-” 

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you Roci?” Doflamingo tilts his head. He hasn’t stopped smiling 

“Of course not, Doffy, I just-” Rocinante flounders and has a hard time keeping his eyes on Doflamingo’s face. 

“Good,” Doflamingo rises slowly. “I’m glad you enjoyed him, I’ll tell him he’s already got a fan. For the next shoot, what do you think of Law working with a blond model?”

Rocinante’s heart is in his throat. His face feels too hot. He knows Doflamingo is antagonizing him just to see the reaction, but he can’t seem to get the right words out. He knows he’s gripping his own hands too tight, that his knuckles are white under the force but he doesn’t dare look down to draw attention to it. Doesn’t dare look anywhere but up as Doflamingo looms so tall over him. Rocinante carefully unclenches his jaw but Doflamingo is speaking before the ache can leave his teeth.

“Thought you might like that,” Doflamingo’s smile is cloying and Rocinante feels a little bit sick with the build up of words he keeps swallowing down. A poignant pause, like Doflamingo is waiting. Rocinante still can’t find the words to say as the silence rings between them. “It’s been a good chat, little brother. Call me next week when the shoot posts, I’m eager to hear your thoughts.” 

Rocinante is a beat behind as Doflamingo moves to leave. There are small indentations from where his fingernails dug into the sides of his hands. He shows Doflamingo to the door, though does little but hold it open for him, hiding one hand behind his back and the other around the doorknob. “It’s always a pleasure, Doffy.” 

Doflamingo looks him over, sizes him up, “You sound so stiff.” he chuckles, “Just learn to be more appreciative of what I do for you, we are family after all.” And then he’s out the door and gone before Rocinante can attempt to choke out a reply. 

Closing the door to shut out the daylight seems fitting as Rocinante slumps under the weight of bone deep weariness. He is tired; he feels worn and rung out and left in tatters. He needs a cigarette. Or two. And a stiff drink to go with it.

He rubs a hand over his face in an attempt to scrub off the feeling and is reminded of his original intention to vacuum as he trips over said vacuum and gets tangled in the power cord. He lay sprawled on the ground for a moment, a brief respite. It’s not comfortable and he’s going to get more tangled in the cord before he can get untangled, but he takes the moment to just not think. Not think about his brother or the video or the mess waiting for him.

It still takes a lot to consciously ignore the kernel of excitement budding in the back of his mind that there will be another video from Law next week. 

Rocinante covers his face with his hands, “I am so fucked.”


End file.
